Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights of the waiting room did nothing to soothe Amelia's frayed nerves. Her leg bounced relentlessly, a frantic drumbeat against the worn floral print of the chair. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a familiar habit she'd developed in the last few weeks. Appointments like this were supposed to help, but her chest felt tight, like a band was constricting her. The air hung thick with the scent of disinfectant and something else, something cloying and floral that made her stomach churn. Her gaze darted around, avoiding the glossy brochures promising inner peace.

"Amelia?" The voice was a low, melodic drawl.

Amelia’s head snapped up. Standing in the doorway was…Brenda Miller? The Brenda Miller? The girl who used to delight in tripping her in the hallway, the queen of cutting remarks, the architect of a thousand tiny humiliations? Brenda, now wearing a soft cardigan and a kind smile, a name tag identifying her as a therapist.

"Come on in," Brenda said, gesturing with a hand that seemed, impossibly, gentle. Amelia felt a cold dread crawl up her spine.